in those days to the detriment of honest folk. Their power of the evil eye; their unpleasant habit of overlooking innocent men and women, was quelled and crushed by Gammer’s stronger if less sinister charms. To gain private ends, she fostered this vulgar opinion concerning her accomplishments; was much rapt in secret studies and claimed wide skill in medicaments and cures by drug and amulet for beast and man. Recoveries, indeed, were laid at her door with frank thankfulness; though whether the moorland herbs and rare simples, ostentatiously plucked at times of old moons and eclipses, were to be thanked so much as that ingredient of strong French brandy which entered into her prescriptions, may be left a matter of conjecture. Upon the door of Gammer Gurney’s mysterious home John Aggett knocked, then a little nut-brown woman opened to him, nodded without affectation of superior parts, and even curtseyed in old-fashioned style at sight of Timothy. “Your sarvant, young maister,” she said. “Be pleased to step in, an’ you’m welcome, I’m sure, though ’tis the home of poverty. Rest free, if that’s your errand—rest; an’ theer’s a gude cushioned chair to hold ’e tu, though you mightn’t count to find such here.” The white witch had no peculiarities. She merely suggested a venerable and time-worn body whose life had not lacked tribulations and whose tether must be near at hand. But her dark eyes were very bright and her activity of body was still apparent. Timothy lolled in the great “grandfather” chair and a red peat glow flamed on his leather gaiters from the fire; John sat near the door with a wandering and uneasy eye, ready to discover mystery and read secrets at every turn. He knew that to ask openly for the cordial he desired had been to make a hole in his manners. He therefore waited for his master to speak. Gammer Gurney mended the fire and chattered briskly. “Theer’ll be little more huntin’ ’pon the high Moor ’fore the snaw come. An’ ’tis near now. It be given me to knaw ’bout what fashion weather us may look for by the birds an’ berries, by the autumn colour of leaves, by tokens hid in still waters an’ the callin’ of the cleeves.” “The reds was in the sky this marnin’,” said John, “a savage, sulky sunrise, I warn ’e.” “I seed un; an’ a terrible braave sight of snaw unshed in the elements; an’ the airth ripe for it. Gert snaw an’ ice be comin’, wi’ sorrowful deep drifts an’ death to man an’ beast, an’ awfullest floods to follow arter. I’ve knawn this many days an’ laid in store against it.” Timothy now saw his opportunity. “And I’m going to add to that store if you’ll let me. There’s a fine hare in the bag.” “A hare, did ’e say? They’m dark, fanciful beasts, an’ if I was anything but a honest woman, I’d not touch no such thing. But I knaw what I knaw. Wheer did ’e find un?” “I shot un,” said John, dragging the animal forth. “Her was sittin’ aquott under a tussock nigh Horn’s Cross on Holne Moor.”